


freak

by realmsoffreedom



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Abuse, Anxiety, Depression, Eating Disorders, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Panic Attacks, Self-Harm, Suicidal Thoughts, The X Factor Era
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-25
Updated: 2016-05-07
Packaged: 2018-06-04 10:42:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6654820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/realmsoffreedom/pseuds/realmsoffreedom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I cut myself."</p>
<p>"I throw up everything I eat."</p>
<p>"I <i>don't</i> eat."</p>
<p>"The bullying has broken me."</p>
<p>"No one would care if I disappeared."</p>
<p>The X Factor - with a dark twist.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I said I'd post last night, but I got busy with some things at home, so I couldn't.
> 
> This is a repost of a previous story I had up. I deleted it because I didn't like the way it was turning out at all, it was too rushed and discombobulated for my taste. I'm reworking it, so hopefully, it turns out better this time.
> 
> This story is going to be extremely triggering - if you're sensitive to anything in the tags, I wouldn't advise reading it. I'll put trigger warnings at the beginning of every chapter, and you can message me on tumblr (theghostofashton) for a synopsis of any particularly triggering chapter.
> 
> Trigger warning for anxiety attacks. Enjoy.

Liam isn’t sure what’s more terrifying.

The fact that he’s just about to audition for the X-Factor, or the fact that it’ll be his _second_ audition. He _cannot_ fuck this up. 

The last time, two years ago, Simon Cowell said he wasn’t ready, he wasn’t old enough, and to come back in two years and try again. _God_. That memory brings a tide of others – flashbacks of the ruthless teasing he had to endure when he got back to school. Everyone knew he wouldn’t make it, and he had just proved them right. He was even condemned by the teachers for trying out for a “frivolous singing competition”, and missing school.

The memories send a tirade of shitty thoughts through his head; he can’t fuck up this time, he can’t go home to that again…he can’t leave, broken and defeated once more. His heart won’t be able to take that pain again.

He grew up being disliked, but everything escalated after he tried out two years ago, and didn’t make it. It was so horrendous – having to consider dropping out of school just to evade bullies is terrible. He almost did drop out, but in the end, his education was something that mattered so much more than the bullies trying to bring him down. That doesn’t at all undermine how hard it was to go back – the bullying had increased tenfold and it took every ounce of courage not to give his tormentors what they wanted.

“Liam? You’re on in thirty minutes!”

Time seems to stop when Liam hears those words. He only has thirty minutes to pull himself together and give the goddamn best audition possible. He honestly doesn’t think he can do it. It’s too early; he’s not ready for this.

The feeling of panic is strong, washing over him like a heavy tidal wave. It’s paralyzing and draining at the same time, like someone’s just taken a hose and sucked the life out of him. 

“Liam, babe, calm down.”

Hands are on his shoulders, and he stills. His vision is blurry and he can’t see very well. He can feel himself sweating, perspiration dripping down the back of his neck and down his shirt. Oh god. 

“Take deep breaths, you’re alright.”

His chest heaves, the effort of the panic weighing down on him. He sucks in air too fast, and then ends up coughing, gasping desperately. The voice is still murmuring soft words of comfort into his ear, trying to get him to calm his breathing down. 

Another five minutes go by, before he’s able to breathe normally again. Exhaustion drapes him like a sticky blanket, and he sighs in relief as he’s lowered down into a chair. He can finally see properly, and when his vision comes back into focus, he finds himself staring into his sister’s eyes.

“You okay now?” She reaches up to brush hair from his eyes, concern evident in her gaze.

“Yeah.” Liam nods weakly, blinking wearily at her. “Sorry, that was…I didn’t mean to panic…”

“It’s alright. This is a big step for you – it must be intimidating, to come back and try again. We’re all so proud of you, Li. You’ll do amazing.”

“What if I’m still not ready? I passed my GCSEs, I waited two years, and I’m 16 now. Hopefully more mature and more prepared for this. But what if I’m still not ready?”

“You mean, after two years of being kept up most nights because you were insistent on practicing until you’d just about lost your voice, I still have to reassure you that you’re ready?” She chuckles good-naturedly at him. “Liam, you have _nothing_ to worry about. Your voice has gotten so much better in these couple of years – Simon Cowell will be blown away. There is nothing keeping you from moving on to the next round.”

“I hope so.” 

“Don’t hope. _Know_. Be confident in yourself and your abilities, Li. Your voice is wonderful – don’t doubt that. You shouldn’t doubt that.”

“Singing in front of all those people…I know I’m going to fuck up, Roo. I know it.”

Ruth sighs. “You sing in front of me, Nicki, mum, dad, all your friends, and you’re fine. Sure, all these people are strangers and you believe that they’re judging every damn word that comes out of your mouth, but that isn’t the case. Just imagine me sitting front row, telling you to shut the hell up so I can go to sleep. You always sing _louder_ whenever I tell you that, so channel that feeling. You can do this, Li. We all believe in you.”

…

“I’m not so sure about this anymore…”

Harry fiddles with his fingers as his mind races, thinking of all the ways he could possibly fuck this audition up. Whose idea was it to do this again? He’s really not sure if he’s going to make it – or even have a fighting chance. This was a stupid idea. He’s awkward as hell – his singing will be no different.

“Haz…” Anne sighs, placing her hands on her son’s shoulders. “You’ve worked so hard for this moment. Everything you’ve done in the past couple years has led up to it. You’ve got this in the bag.”

Harry studies her, gaze traveling down to what she’s wearing. He rolls his eyes at her shirt. The article of clothing probably has more faith in him than he has in himself. There was no point in having it made. When he loses, she’ll probably have to burn the damn thing. 

“I’m going to the loo.” He turns his face away, whirling around and walking in the direction of the restroom. It’s hard to be suffocated by reassurances; promises that he’ll make it, when he knows that won’t be the case. He doesn’t have anything to lose by auditioning, other than his dignity, but knowing that Simon Cowell watched him fuck up…that’s something he won’t get over.

He’s never really managed to fit in anywhere, his entire life. At school, he’s the loner, the kid who talks to no one unless spoken to, the one who always has his headphones in. People leave him alone, and he enjoys the solitude. It’d just be nice not to be a hermit – to have people he can lean on and trust.

He really doesn’t have to piss; he just wanted to get away from his overbearing mum for a few minutes. Words of constant reassurance are so fucking annoying, especially when he doesn’t believe any of them. He doesn’t know how she does, because he knows he’s nothing special. He’s nothing, period. No value to the world – nothing.

Glancing up at his reflection in one of the mirrors, Harry sighs and turns on the tap, sticking his hands under the water. This is just stupid – why bother trying if he knows nothing will come of it? Why allow himself to feel the heartbreak getting three ‘nos’ will bring? He’s not ready to have one more disappointment added to the ever-growing list.

He shuts off the tap and turns to grab a paper towel, also managing to bump into someone. Shit.

“Oops,” he mutters. “Sorry, didn’t see you there.”

The other person is silent, so he looks up, immediately mesmerized. The boy standing in front of him is beautiful. He’s shorter, with chestnut hair, a fringe that covers his forehead, and kind blue eyes. 

“Hi,” the stranger says softly. “I’m Louis, what’s your name?”

“Harry.” He’s still staring at Louis, taking in all the other boy’s features with wide, curious eyes. He’s never seen – or met – someone like this before. Something about Louis is different, foreign.

“Nice to meet you, Harry,” Louis continues, holding out a hand.

Harry’s gaze shifts from Louis’ outstretched hand to his own wet ones, and he smiles sheepishly. Reaching over, he grabs a paper towel and dries his hands off, while Louis watches him with that same small smile on his face.

“Sorry.” He shoots Louis another rueful smile, reaching out to shake his hand.

“S’alright mate,” Louis replies. “You auditioning?”

“Yeah, but I don’t think I’ll even make it – I don’t know why I bother. It’s no use, I’m shit at singing.”

“Hey, stop that.” Louis’ soft tone turns firm, as he stares at Harry. “Don’t knock yourself before you’ve even started. Your voice is beautiful, and I can tell that just from you speaking. You don’t even need to sing for me to know you have a beautiful voice. You’ll make it. Promise.”

“Unless you can read into the future, that’s a promise you’re gonna have to break,” Harry says cynically, looking down at the floor. “Don’t waste your time trying to reassure me – I hate that.”

“S’not reassuring when it’s true,” Louis reaches up and lifts his chin. “You’re going to make it, I swear. I’m tempted to ask for your autograph and a picture now, so when you become the next Michael Jackson, I can say I was the first to get your autograph and have a picture taken with you.”

Holy shit. This boy has more faith in him than Harry has _ever_ had in himself – comparing him to Michael Jackson is no joke. 

Louis reaches over and pulls a paper towel out of the dispenser, and a pen from his pocket. He hands both to Harry, grinning at him. “Sign. I better be the first to have your autograph.”

Harry shrugs. What has he got to lose? After all, Louis is the confident one – it’s not like he’s saying he’ll win, and will end up not winning. He signs his name on the paper towel, wondering how this boy can be so forward. He’s not used to encounters like this.

“Thanks, Curly.”

“It’s Harry, not Curly,” Harry corrects, feeling his cheeks get hot.

“You have curly hair, do you not? I deem you Curly.” Louis laughs at him, and god, his laugh is beautiful, a smooth, velvety sound that has Harry melting. 

“Um, thanks, I guess…” Harry mumbles awkwardly. “I’ll see you around?”

“Definitely,” Louis replies. “Good luck, Curly. You’ll do great.”

…

“I don’t know about this, fuck, fucking hell why did I let you talk me into this?!”

Niall’s grip tightens on his best friend’s hand, as he looks around the room wildly. “I mean, this is the _X Factor_. Why the fuck did I even think I was good enough for this?”

“Because you _are_ ,” Grace says firmly. “You are more than good enough for this, Ni. You’ve got this in the bag.”

Niall sighs and shakes his head. “No, no I don’t. I don’t have this in the bag, because I don’t fucking have any reason to do this, besides the fact that I can’t stay at home any longer. I’m not doing this because I think my voice is good, I’m doing it because if I get in, I won’t have to go back to that house…”

“No matter why you’re doing it, you are going to be amazing, I promise.” Grace leads him into an empty practice room, and they both sit down, knees brought up to their chests and backs against the wall. “Niall, you’re going to do great. And I’ll be there the entire time. If you feel like you’re going to panic, just look offstage at me, and you’ll know you can do it. Because you _can_. You deserve this and so much more.”

“Why do you have so much faith in me?” Niall mumbles, dropping her hand and burying his face in his knees. “I don’t even have faith in myself. The only way to get out of that house is to die – this’ll never work.”

“Don’t fucking say that!” Grace snaps. “Stop talking about death. Just focus on your breathing, calm yourself down. You’re on in a half hour.”

“I can’t do it, Gracie,” Niall sighs. “I can’t get up there and pretend like I don’t want to go crawl into a corner and never be seen again. You know how bad I am with presentations, this is so much fucking worse.”

“I’ve been your best friend for over ten years, I think I know you by now,” Grace says gently. She scoots in front of him, taking both his sweaty hands in hers. “And I know how bad you get, but I also know that you have such amazing talent. It’s so fucking shitty to let that go to waste – you can’t do that to yourself. You have a gift, Ni. You deserve to be able to share it with the world.”

“What if they send me home with four nos?” Niall mutters, looking back down at his knees. “Have you even thought about what would happen then?”

“Then you’ll get through it. You’ll survive, and come back and audition again. But that won’t happen. I haven’t thought about it because I know it won’t happen. You’re too good to be let go of, trust me on that.”

“Do you really fucking think I can do this?” Niall whispers. “You really think I have a shot of impressing Simon fucking _Cowell_?”

“I think you’re going to make Simon Cowell wonder why he didn’t find out about you sooner,” Grace replies. “You are going to go out there and fucking kill it, just like you’ve done the many times we’ve practiced this. And if it helps, imagine it to be just me. Imagine you’re singing me to sleep.”

“Yeah, because that’s not fuckin’ embarrassing,” Niall mumbles. The blush that begins to coat his cheeks makes Grace laugh, and she squeezes his hands in her own, as the red on his cheeks darkens. 

“It’ll work, won’t it?” She sees his sheepish smile and reciprocates it with one of her own, punching him lightly in the shoulder. “Whatever you need, Ni. And I’ll be here. It’ll all go over wonderfully, I promise.”

“Fucking hell.” Niall uncurls himself, stretching his legs out and opening his arms. He hugs her tightly, kissing the top of her head. “This is why you’re my best friend. I fuckin’ love you.”

…

Zayn is shaking.

He’s auditioning for the X Factor today, and he almost fucking forgot about it – his mum had to get him up, and he almost missed the auditions. He’s so fucked. His plan was to get up early and go over his song a few million more times until the auditions, but he was up so late last night practicing, that he crashed, and he crashed _hard_.

He’s shaking and he has no idea whether he’s even ready for this. The prospect of singing in front of an entire audience, along with Simon Cowell and the other three judges is terrifying. He doesn’t know whether he’s going to get through this unscathed, and the thought is making his heart race even more. He’s going to fuck this up, for sure. He’s going to fuck up and then he’ll be the talk of the school and everyone will think he’s even more pathetic.

He tries to act tough – he basically looks like the typical emo. While that may be an insult to some, it’s a compliment to him. He wants to be emo – he wants to be a force to be reckoned with, someone that kids point at and tell their friends to run far away from. He’s never wanted to be one of those popular kids with five thousand friends and no room to be himself – the mere thought is disgusting and wrong. 

Not fitting in has been good for him – people leave him alone, and he does the same. It’s a win-win situation. When it comes to presentations and performances, he’s an absolute wreck – an anxiety endowed mess – completely tearing away the tough, threatening look that he’s going for.

“Z, love, here’s your number and everything.” He looks up at his mum with tears in his eyes, and hers soften, filling with concern. She pulls him in for a hug, and he buries his face in her shoulder, trying not to cry.

“Deep breaths,” she murmurs. “You’ve got it. You’re going to do so well, baby. You’re making us so proud.”

“I’m so scared, mum, what if I fuck it all up?” He reveals his fear shakily, voice catching in his throat.

“No, none of that now, you’re not going to screw it up,” Tricia replies softly. “You are wonderful, my love, and everything will work out so well.”

“I overslept…I didn’t get to practice this morning…” He hangs his head, staring down at his black Converse with a sullen look on his face. “I don’t know if I’m ready.”

“Hush, Z, you’re over analyzing the situation and panicking more than you should. Doniya won’t stop complaining about how you keep her up every night with your singing – trust me, you’ve practiced more than enough, you _are_ ready. You’re gonna do so well, and all five of us are so proud of you.”

“You’ll still be proud, even if I don’t make it, right…?”

“Of course we will, but you will make it,” Tricia says confidently. “You’ll make it and then you’ll become a huge recording artist and tour the world and it’ll be so beautiful to see, love.”

“If I get famous, I’m gonna buy you a house, mum,” Zayn says. “You’ve spent so much of your life doing so much for me, and I’m gonna buy you a house to show you how grateful I am.”

“Oh Zayn, baby, I love you so much.” He hugs her again, kissing her cheek. “But you don’t have to do that for me. Just knowing you’ve succeeded and watching you do the things you love will be enough for me. That’s all I need to be happy in life – to know that my baby is happy, thriving, living the life he’s always wanted to live. Nothing else matters.”

“I’m still gonna buy you a house, mum,” Zayn promises. “I’ll get you a house.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this has taken so long. Between SAT prep and studying for AP exams, I've been really busy. Trigger warnings for anxiety, self-harm, panic attacks, and some depressing things. Enjoy.

The first round goes pretty well. 

He manages to make it, with three yeses and one no. It’s somewhat of a downer, that one no, but he makes it through solo auditions; something he never thought possible. Grace is smirking at him, giving him the flat out ‘I told you so’, and he grumbles, but doesn’t have the heart to tell her off. He’s in too good of a mood.

Leaning over, he pulls her against his chest and nuzzles his nose into the crook of her neck, smiling as she starts to squeal. His best friend is the only person who can make him this happy – who can make him laugh when all he wants to do is cry. He wouldn’t be auditioning for the X factor without her – there’s no way he would’ve gained the confidence to do it on his own.

“Niall!” Grace whines. “Don’t you have boot camp now?”

“Guess so, yeah. Dunno if you can come with, but you’re gonna stay, right?” He looks at her with pleading eyes, squeezing her tighter against him, almost suffocating the poor girl.

Grace pushes against him until he finally loosens his grip, before answering. “You trying to kill me, Ni? Let me breathe, for fuck’s sake. And if you think I’m leaving, you obviously don’t know me as well as I thought you did, which is sad because you’re my best friend and the person who knows me better than anyone else.”

“I’m just nervous, Gracie,” he confesses, sighing. “There are so many good singers who got put through. This isn’t gonna be easy.”

Grace rolls her eyes. “Thank you, Captain Obvious. You knew it wouldn’t be easy when you signed up, but you’ve come this far, yeah? You didn’t think you’d be put through, but now you have been. You’re gonna do just fine, Ni. And I’ll be there on the sidelines, rooting for you. Think of me as your own personal cheerleader.”

“I thought you hated cheerleaders? Isn’t that why you became a ballerina?” 

“Wow, try to reassure a guy and get insulted in response,” Grace huffs. “Why do I put up with you? Sometimes I have to sit back and seriously ask myself that question.”

“You’ve “put up” with me since we were five,” Niall replies. “I don’t think you’re gonna stop anytime soon.”

…

The first round of boot camp is easy, or so Zayn thinks.

When they receive the challenge for the second day, it’s as if a part of him dies inside. _Dancing_. 

Fuck that.

He’s never been a dancer, and he auditioned to _sing_ , why are they forcing him to dance? Fucking stupid, to be honest. He doesn’t need to be a good dancer, if he can sing, that’s all that really matters. The mere thought of dancing is making his heart thud in his chest and his head spin. 

He’s never been good at dancing – and yes, he _has_ tried, and he’s always been laughed at. Every attempt has been shittier than the one preceding it, and Zayn just would rather save himself the embarrassment. Especially since there’s gonna be an entire room full of people watching him, and one of them is Simon Cowell. Nope. No way in hell is Zayn putting himself through the motherfucking embarrassment. That’s only going to make the urge to slice his skin stronger, because he is a fuck up and he can’t dance and he doesn’t want to make a fool out of himself and have everyone judge him. 

He shoves his hands into his pockets and walks off onto the side, thankful that his mum isn’t here for this part. He’d get an earful if she was, definitely, and he isn’t in the mood for that.

“Zayn! Zayn, come back here!”

He ignores whoever is calling for him. At this rate, he’ll probably be asked to leave, and sure, it’s his own fault, but he’s not willing to put himself in a situation that’ll make him feel like he wants to die inside. He’s not risking his mental health just so that Simon fucking Cowell can watch him _dance_ , even though this is a _singing_ competition. 

He slumps against the wall outside, burying his head in his knees and sighing. He doesn’t want to be the rebellious idiot that refuses to do what they’re supposed to, but this is one thing he just can’t do. 

“Zayn!”

Great, they’ve sent another contestant to find him and probably talk some sense into him. Well, sucks for them, it’s not gonna work. Under no circumstances is he dancing. No way in hell.

“Hey mate, m’Liam.” The boy in front of him looks familiar – he remembers seeing him before solo auditions – almost as freaked out as Zayn was. “Why’d you walk off?”

“I can’t dance. I’m not dancing,” Zayn insists, his voice cracking. Fuck, he’s crying now. Or quite close to it. He must look so damn pathetic. Crying over something stupid like this, who the hell does that?

“Hey, listen,” Liam murmurs. “Don’t get upset. It’s just dancing. Trust me, none of us would make it onto Broadway with our skillsets. The judges just want to get a feel for what we can do, because if we actually do make it as solo artists, we’re gonna probably tour and need to dance on stage and shit. If you’re not good, it’s okay. They’re not gonna kick you off because you’re not a good dancer. No one had any idea we’d have to dance.”

“I’m gonna make a fool outta myself and everyone’s gonna laugh at me and I don’t want to put myself through that. My anxiety won’t _let_ me put myself through that,” Zayn mutters. “It’s okay. I’d rather be kicked off now, than have to go in there and _dance_ in front of all those people.”

“That’s no way to talk,” Liam replies. “I heard your audition; you were amazing! You can’t waste that talent over something silly like dancing. No one cares how shit you do, hell, I’m a horrendous dancer myself. I don’t think anyone here is professional, hell, I don’t think some of these people have danced properly a day in their lives. Everyone is gonna look like they don’t know what they’re doing – you’ll fit right in, I promise.”

“I still don’t want to do it…”

“Just try, okay?” Liam suggests. “Just try. You can do it in the first wave, with me. And it’ll be all over and then we can grab something to eat and you can forget it ever happened. Sound good?”

“You don’t take no for an answer, do you?” Zayn cocks an eyebrow at the other boy, and Liam laughs.

“No, not really.” Liam straightens, holding out a hand to help Zayn up. “Let’s just get it over with, yeah?”

…

For the mini panic attack Zayn basically just had, he doesn’t do too badly, or so Liam thinks. 

He watches Zayn dance with a reassuring smile plastered on his face. It may not reflect his inner thoughts, but Zayn is definitely looking over at him, and being met with encouragement is all the other boy needs right now. Liam knows exactly how he feels. Anxiety is a fucking bitch, especially when it flares up in a situation that you can’t get out of.

“You did great,” Liam says, clapping Zayn’s shoulder, once his group finishes. “See? Nothing to worry about. I’m proud of you.”

Zayn shakes his head, panting slightly. “I was shit. But it’s over. And I never have to dance in public again, so I’m good.”

“You did really well,” Liam repeats, as if reaffirming his previous statement. “Don’t downplay your successes because your mind is being a bitch about them.”

Zayn shrugs. “My mind is a bitch about everything good in my life. Don’t see why it would change for something like this.” 

“Whatever your mind tells you,” Liam says gently. “I think you were really great, and I’m really proud of you. Now how about we get that meal I told you about? My treat.”

…

Dancing doesn’t go too badly, even for Harry, who seems to have no sense of balance and two left feet. They were told that there would be no cuts after the dancing round, so everything worked out pretty well. And Harry is pleasantly surprised to see Louis is still in the competition. He seriously hoped that the chestnut haired lad would stick around, after all, his speaking voice was beautiful, his singing must’ve been damn angelic. 

The next day brings another solo song – they have to choose one, and then they’re separated into groups by artist of the song, to practice. Harry’s choice wasn’t that bold, though it was a song that showcased his vocal talent pretty well. He likes playing things safe. The sense of security he gets from singing familiar songs makes him sing better, in his opinion. It’s just easier to sing something he knows, rather than take a risk and get the tune wrong and end up being cut. After singing, he takes his seat, and when another body drops into the seat beside him, he turns and finds Louis looking at him sheepishly.

“I hope you don’t mind…you’re the only person I’ve really talked to this entire competition.”

“’Course not,” Harry replies. “So, how do you think you did?”

“I’m not sure, to be honest…” Louis sighs. “I know I did better than the first audition – that was atrocious, but I don’t think this was good enough to get me through…”

“I’m sure you did wonderfully,” Harry praises. “You have an amazing voice.”

“Why thank you, Curly,” Louis says dramatically. “Yours is quite angelic as well, if I do say so myself.”

Harry rolls his eyes at the comment, but doesn’t reply. Louis obviously notices, and calls him out on it. “You don’t believe me, do you?”

Harry sighs and shakes his head. “I just…I don’t think I’m very good, honestly. There’s a lot more people who are so much better than me. There’s no way I’m gonna get put through this final stage of boot camp.”

“You just gotta believe,” Louis recites, and it sounds downright ridiculous to Harry. No one’s believed in him this much before. Well, except his family, but they don’t count. His family will believe in him no matter what. It’s just different when a stranger thinks so highly of him. He’s never had that before.

“I’m not a believer, I’m afraid,” he mumbles, and he feels Louis place a hand on his shoulder.

“S’okay,” Louis replies softly. “When you do make it, I’ll get my chance to rub it in your face, that I fucking told you so.”

“You wait for that.”

…

He doesn’t make it. 

Louis feels tears sting his eyes and a lump in his throat, because yeah he didn’t think he would but not hearing his name called makes it so much more real and it _hurts_. He didn’t make it and now he has to go home to a house full of sisters and a mum that doesn’t seem to _see_ him, no matter how hard he tries to appear visible to her. His boatload of sisters is the only thing on her mind, not the only son she has.

He hears a sob and turns, his heart breaking when he sees the state Harry’s in. The curly haired lad is visibly crying, red cheeks matching his bloodshot eyes, little sobs bursting out of his throat.

“Hey, Curly.” He forces himself to keep his voice steady, as he joins Harry. “It’s okay, we’ll get ‘em next time, yeah? This isn’t the end.”

Harry shrugs and turns away, not saying anything, and Louis feels his heart sink into his stomach. What did he do wrong? He thinks back to the events occurring the day prior, and he realizes that Harry must be upset because of the false hope he gave him. Well, another thing to add to the list of reasons he’s a fuck up. Sighing, he swallows against the lump in his throat and leans against the wall, trying to keep his tears in. 

To distract himself, he looks around the now distressed room, watching each of the now rejected contestants’ reactions. There’s a blond boy hugging a brown haired girl, and he can assume he’s crying over how red the visible part of his face looks and how tightly he’s squeezing the girl in his arms. 

Another boy with a brown fringe covering his forehead has hands rubbing at his eyes constantly, trying to stop the tears, but is only succeeding in reddening his cheeks and making his eyes more bloodshot than before. There’s another lad on the floor, his back pressed against the wall, only the back of his head visible as he shoves his head into his knees, obviously not wanting anyone to see him crying. 

Fucking hell. Louis has never wanted to dig a hole and bury himself in it more than he does right now.


End file.
